


Compare & Contrast

by eevilalice



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Hogwarts Era, One Shot, Plot What Plot, Rare Pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-18
Updated: 2011-11-18
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:20:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eevilalice/pseuds/eevilalice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Draco breaks up with her 6th year, Pansy is in desperate need of a distraction. What or who will fit the bill?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compare & Contrast

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Interhouse Fest 2011 on Livejournal.

Pansy is not the kind of girl who looks back. She just needs a little help, sometimes, going forward. Usually all it takes is revenge: a well-wrought, well-executed plan and a target in tears.

 

But when Draco breaks her heart (at least she _thinks_ that’s what it is) after winter hols by telling her they need to take a break so he can concentrate on _more important things_ , letting go proves more difficult than usual.

 

It’s not that she’s being greedy. She knows about his mission for the Dark Lord, even if the details remain locked up tight behind those grey eyes.

 

Yet, she has been laboring under false assumptions. She thought she was helping. She thought she was a _comfort_ , and therefore, indirectly, a part of things.

 

A part of him.

 

If he wants to go it alone, if he wants to prove himself some paragon of manhood, with no shoulder to cry on (not that he’s ever actually cried on her shoulder), well, fine with her.

 

It’s just…when Pansy thinks of all the work she’s put into their relationship, into one day becoming Mrs. Draco Malfoy—all the fawning, the Quidditch matches (she _hates_ Quidditch), the patient, sympathetic ear, her meticulously kept figure…

 

He better not forget.

 

She will _not_ wallow in self-pity. She will not dwell.

 

What she needs is a distraction.

 

* * *

 

The Great Hall is cacophonous with start-of-term cheer as Pansy scans the tables in apparent boredom. Already word has spread throughout Slytherin that she and Draco have split, and falsely sympathetic girls wander up from time to time to offer support with barely suppressed glee. _As if any of you have a chance,_ she huffs to herself.

 

Her eyes are anything but idle as they run up and down the long rows of students: Slytherin, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff (so wonderfully naïve). Fuck it: Gryffindor, too.

 

Who will be her distraction?

 

A head of blond hair catches her eye. McLaggen. He’s staring at the cozy cluster of Potter, Weasley, and Granger, a slight frown on his handsome face.

 

His _very_ handsome face.

 

While he’s still looking away, Pansy allows herself a grin. McLaggen is the perfect combination of familiar and foreign: overconfident and boorish, blond and bulky, well-connected (given his Slug Club membership), yet a nobody in the circles in which she travels. From what she’s heard, he fancied Granger (though Merlin knows why, the intolerable, bushy-haired swot that she is; he could clearly do so much better and probably has), but nothing appears to have come of it.

 

McLaggen’s now laughing with some Gryffindor boys, and Pansy surreptitiously checks her own table for anyone who might be approaching or looking her way. Thankfully, the girls are either tucking into their meals, as are the boys, or already shared their sincerest of fake Slytherin sympathy earlier. No one pays her any heed as she tilts her head coquettishly and fixes her gaze on the Quidditch Keeper sitting almost directly across the room from her.

 

It takes but a moment for him to feel her eyes on him. Swallowing his pumpkin juice, he returns her stare and raises an eyebrow. She maintains the eye contact for one, two, three heartbeats, then lets a smile stretch her lips. He grins wolfishly, not at all boyishly.

 

She’s made the right choice.

 

She gets up, exits the Great Hall with its hum of voices and adolescent-teenage energy, and meanders towards the dungeons. Another three heartbeats and there are footsteps behind her.

 

“Hey Parkinson.”

 

She turns, puts her weight on one leg. “McLaggen. Just like a trained dog,” she goads. She wants to see how far she can push him. How much fun she can have.

 

He catches up, stopping just short of her personal space. “A dog that’s pretty sure he’s about to get a treat,” he flirts easily, unfazed. He scans her from head to toe, obviously and appreciatively.

 

Pansy preens, happy for once to be seduced as much as the one seducing. “Would you like to go somewhere more…private?” she asks, eager to really get things going. She senses there’s no such thing as “too aggressive” with McLaggen.

 

“Lead on. I’ll be right behind you,” he assures, his head angling, eyes fixed south pointedly to indicate her arse.

 

_Merlin, are all Gryffindor boys as subtle as Knockturn Alley whores?_

 

No matter. Pansy isn’t in the mood for subtle Slytherin games, for parries and feints. She and McLaggen can be all thrust as far as she’s concerned.

 

Flashing a crooked smile and flipping her hair, she leads him down the corridor, up a few shifting flights of stairs, and down a few more deserted passages to a shadowy alcove where she used to steal (increasingly infrequent and reluctant) kisses from Draco. Before she can turn, he takes her by the hips and presses against her from behind.

 

“Mm…” he inhales, voice muffled by her hair. “I hope you taste as good as you smell.”

 

Pansy’s heartbeat picks up, her skin growing warm, knickers damp. She loves this, loves how her body just _works_ on instinct.

 

“Why don’t you find out?” she purrs and circles her hips. Instead of turning her around as she expects, he slides a hand up her side, pausing at her breast before moving to her neck. He wraps his hand around her throat, and Pansy’s pussy absolutely _floods_ with want. With the pads of his hot fingers, he presses, encouraging her to twist her neck back to face him. Before she can even meet his eyes, his mouth is on hers, firm, sensuous lips massaging hers open until their tongues are licking and stroking. His other hand is tight on her hip, his body large and solid behind her, and this is _nothing_ like being with Draco.

 

It’s perfect.

 

She reaches up and twines her fingers in his golden hair, so thick and curly, and moans into his mouth. She can tell she’s about to get shagged into the wall, and that it will be brilliant, and she wonders what his cock will be like (at least as big as Draco’s, judging from the erection prodding the small of her back)…

 

And then he’s breaking the kiss with a wet smack, licking his lips and giving a small nod of approval. “Not bad at all, Parkinson. There’s just one thing.”

 

Dazed and inconspicuously annoyed, Pansy extricates herself from his grasp as sensuously as possible and backs up against the wall, one hand on her hip. “And what’s that, McLaggen? Don’t be too good a dog,” she smiles naughtily.

 

“Don’t worry,” he chuckles. “Never any danger of that.” He takes a step closer and leans over her conspiratorially. “You see, what I liked about Granger was that she played hard to get. Little minx,” he adds under his breath, a glint in his eye.

 

Pansy bristles. “If you want another Gryffindor tease, I don’t know what you’re doing here with me,” she grits out.

 

“Calm down, Parkinson. I want you. I _really_ want you. I just thought we’d have some fun before we both get what we want. You know, foreplay,” he smirks, toying with the textured strands of hair that frame her face. “And don’t pretend this has nothing to do with your little Ice Prince.”

 

 _Ice Prince?_ Pansy doesn’t know how she should feel about Draco’s (admittedly accurate) moniker. It occurs to her she shouldn’t care at this moment.

 

“Look, what I’m suggesting is a game. Nothing elaborate. Don’t you like games?” His mouth is at her ear; he has to bend quite a bit. She’s never noticed how tall he is before tonight. It sends shivers of anticipatory pleasure up her spine.

 

“I love games,” she confirms in her most sultry voice. She places a hand on his broad chest, feels her way around the muscles. Draco is slender, all litheness and, lately, sharp angles. McLaggen is hard and cut in an entirely different way. She hopes he pins her beneath all that weight.

 

“Excellent. Meet me at the Quidditch pitch in half an hour.”

 

* * *

 

The bastard has stood her up.

 

Pansy stands in the center of the pitch, in an inch of snow, shivering even in her finest cashmere coat, hat, scarf, and gloves. She’s surprised her rage isn’t enough to keep her warm. _No one_ stands her up, not even Draco. Whatever else he may be, he is at least well-mannered; he was brought up right.

 

Not like this McLaggen _mongrel_.

 

 _He’s probably laughing at me with his mates up in Gryffindor tower while I stand here freezing my tits off_ , she fumes. _I guess revenge is on the table again._

 

She shakes her head, almost sorry for the poor son of a bitch once she’s done with him, and turns to head back toward the castle.

 

“The Snitch is released!” a booming male voice calls from the far edge of the pitch, and Pansy whips round again. She can just make out McLaggen near the Ravenclaw stands, his wand lit.

 

“Aren’t you cold, Parkinson? Maybe a quick run will warm you up, eh? The Snitch never stays still, after all.”

 

Pansy does her best to repress the huge sense of relief and assuaged hurt his appearance sparks and rolls her eyes. So this is the game he has in mind. Playing hard to get, literally making him chase her. She’s not really the athletic type, but, then, she doubts it’ll take long for him to catch her.

 

Fine. Whatever gets his hands back on her.

 

Just as she’s set to jog daintily in the opposite direction, McLaggen comes racing toward her and, unexpectedly startled, she takes off at more of a run. Her heeled boots don’t do much to aid her status as elusive Snitch, and she almost stumbles twice. Behind her, the “Seeker” crashes through the snow, closer and closer. She glances back and sees his face, blurred but determined, _feral_ , and her excitement speeds her on, adrenaline and arousal both pumping through her veins.

 

She hears him almost on her and dashes sharply left, away from the castle. Lungs burning and face stung by the cold winter air, somehow she’s still exhilarated and heated.

 

So exhilarated she neglects to watch her footing, boot sinking in deeper snow, ankle twisting. She falls forward—

 

—and is yanked back by strong arms that lift, flip, and hoist her up over sturdy shoulders. She squeals and grabs at the back of his coat, equal parts terrified and thrilled. What an absolute _barbarian_!

 

He hardly seems out of breath as he marches off with her towards the changing rooms, proclaiming, “Gryffindor has caught the Snitch!” She can’t help herself and giggles in between pants, her breath fogging out into the night, hat tumbling off and falling into the snow, abandoned. His arm is warm and firm around her middle, and not even the constant jostling along the way keeps a knot of anticipation from unfurling inside her.

 

In no time, they reach the small building adjacent to the pitch, and McLaggen sets her down on a wide bench. Pulling off her gloves, she makes to fix her hair, and he grabs her wrists.

 

“Don’t. You’re perfect like that, all wild. You’re a wild girl, aren’t you, Parkinson?” He’s unbuttoning his coat hastily, eyes locked on hers.

 

_Perfect. Well, then._

 

She presses her thighs together, spreads her ankles apart, and looks up at him from under the fringe of her bangs. “Why don’t you make me show you just how wild I can be?”

 

“My pleasure,” he growls and practically dives for her, spreading her thighs and pushing her down on the bench. The kisses are wet and frantic as he pulls at her coat, and she doesn’t even attempt to help him. Draco _never_ needed help, but, then, she was always the one doing the undressing. She can’t say she exactly minds McLaggen’s intense eagerness either, despite its imprecision.

 

He finally wrests the last button from its hole and yanks. Pansy decides _maybe_ she’ll remove her scarf, before he inadvertently strangles her, and shrugs out of her coat to boot, revealing the low-cut, silky blouse and short skirt she donned before discreetly exiting the Slytherin dorm earlier.

 

He whistles, taking her in from mussed hair to knee-high boots, and she licks her lips and watches as he tosses aside his own coat and pulls his jumper over his head, a tight Quidditch t-shirt underneath.

 

And then, his hands and mouth seem to be everywhere at once.

 

Pansy can barely keep up, but she makes a valiant effort, returning sloppy, hot kisses, squeezing at his impossible biceps, wrapping her thighs around his waist and clacking her boot heels together at the ankle as he rubs purposefully against her. She writhes beneath him, breaking away from his mouth on hers with a gasp when his erection grinds just the right spot. She’s so wet by now, surely he must be able to feel it, even through his denims. He must know that she’s more than ready, that she _needs_ …

 

“Fuck, I love brunettes,” he rasps at her temple, threading his fingers through her hair. “So dark and sexy.” He nips her ear. “You take a potion?”

 

 _Finally._ “Yes,” she whispers breathlessly. Not that it’s been serving any purpose of late.

 

“Good,” his voice rumbles into her ear and through her body as he sits up. Before she knows it, he’s fetched his wand from the floor and is waving it over her. Her clothes vanish, and she starts in surprise, involuntarily closing her thighs as best she can. He ignores her reaction in favor of stripping off his t-shirt.

 

“Sorry. Usually I love ripping _all_ the clothes off a girl, but, well, the situation has become dire,” he explains, running a large palm along his imprisoned erection. He wastes no time undoing his fly and pulls out his cock, which is flushed and leaking pre-come. And, yes, thicker than Draco’s. Pansy’s thighs loosen.

 

He takes her by the hips and pulls her towards him until her knees bend and hook over his upper thighs and hips. Tilting forward, he braces his weight on one hand above her head, and leers down at her.

 

“You want it?”

 

Pansy reaches down to grasp his cock and gives it a squeeze. He grunts. “What do _you_ think?” she smirks, rubbing the head against her wet slit.

 

“I think—” he starts, voice strained, a fine sheen of sweat on his face, “I’ll give us what we both want.” With that, she feels him slide first through her fingers where she holds him, and then into her tight sheath. She gasps and grips the bench beneath her, eyes never leaving his. He fills her up, a bit uncomfortably, and she waits for her body to adjust.

 

Luckily, McLaggen seems to be enjoying the effect he has on her and doesn’t move except to lean down and kiss her deeply. She reaches up and claws at his back, her other hand tangling in his thick hair. He palms a breast, tweaks her nipple, and she arches into him, their chests just brushing. She undulates her hips, and he takes the hint, withdrawing almost all the way and then slamming back in, accompanied by Pansy’s high whine of pleasure.

 

He builds a strong, steady, relentless rhythm, and she can hear herself mewling and crying out over and over, nonsense like, “Oh God, oh yes, please, like that, oh, oh yes!” Usually she’s acting, but now she finds she _can’t shut the bloody hell up!_

 

“Yeah, so tight. Say my name,” he demands.

 

Eyes glazed, she rolls her head, barely comprehending his words or able to reply until he fingers her clit, and she shouts, “McLaggen!”

 

“Uh-uh,” he shakes his head and kisses between her sweaty breasts. “Try again.” His thrusts have slowed to almost stopping.

 

_Bastard, total bastard._

 

“C-cormac,” she moans, legs clutching at him restlessly.

 

“Now who’s a good dog?” he grins, and before she can put her thoughts together and figure out whether she should be insulted or turned on by that, he’s flipping her over onto shaky legs, arse in the air, hands scrabbling to grip the bench beneath. Fingers digging into her slippery hips, he drives back home, and she yelps.

 

_Definitely turned on._

 

His cock’s hitting her in entirely new places, and the cries start up all over again as she bends further to wrap her arms around the bench to steady herself, her breasts rubbing against the wood. Thankfully, it seems to have been treated with something. She’d hate to have to explain _those_ marks to Madam Pomfrey.

 

Her moans and mindless ramblings can’t drown out the sound of their flesh smacking together as McLaggen pounds into her, and judging by his increasingly erratic rhythm, she knows he’s close. She reaches back and up with a wobbly arm to rub frantically at her clit (apparently, you can’t trust _any_ bloke in this regard), but then he’s coming before she can join him, grunting and holding her steady on the last thrust.

 

Pansy sighs and wearily begins to push herself up, but slick, muscled arms wrap around her, one trailing down her body, as she straightens.

 

“You’re not going anywhere until I make you come,” he pants against her ear, and she shivers despite the fact that her body feels like it’s still on fire from the fucking. His fingers find her clit and make small circles, punctuated by the occasional pinch, and given her own recent stimulation, it doesn’t take too long before she’s bucking and then trembling against him.

 

He chuckles, ruffling her already much-ruffled hair. “Wouldn’t want you spreading the rumor that I didn’t get you off.” He hands her a pile of her clothes and starts pulling his own on.

 

She steps into her knickers and eyes him. “Oh yes. The famed Slytherin Rumor Mill. Because Gryffindor is a 24/7 Lovefest,” she scoffs, adjusting the cups of her bra. “There will be no rumors of any sort, do you understand, McLaggen?” she says firmly, hands on hips. “Because the only thing worse than being caught up in the Rumor Mill is facing revenge from a wronged Slytherin witch, you got me?” If this were about revenge, she’d be giving him an entirely different speech, but, this is for _her_. No one else is to know.

 

“Relax, Parkinson. I want to do this again. If that means keeping my mouth shut, so be it,” he smiles charmingly. “You do want to do this again, of course?” It’s hardly a question.

 

Pansy pulls on her blouse and smoothes it down, thinking. McLaggen really is sort of a dick, but, then, that’s all she wants him for.

 

“This was fun,” she concedes, finally fixing her hair. “Yes, I wouldn’t mind.” No telling when she might need another distraction.

 

“Then your—or our—secret’s safe with me.” He sidles up to her as she’s buttoning her coat. “Want a ride back to the castle?”

 

“A ride?” She looks around the room. “Are there brooms? I’m not flying in the freezing cold—”

 

“You can ride me. You know, a piggy-back ride. Those boots aren’t exactly practical in snow.”

 

“They aren’t meant to be. They’re meant to give boys hard-ons,” she smirks as she wraps said boots around his waist from behind.

 

“Mission accomplished.”

 

“Indeed.”


End file.
